Impetus
by foxtoast
Summary: Impetus, n, used of bodies moving suddenly or violently to indicate the origin and intensity of the motion. GSR.


Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. ...Although I do own Greg Saunders. I keep him locked in the closet and bring him out on special occasions.

A/N: A great big thank you to D for the fabulous little beta and for fixing my verbs. She told me not to pitch this so I kept it. In other words... her fault. :)

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The first time it happened I hadn't been expecting it and, judging by the surprised look on her face, she hadn't either. There was no invitation, no declaration, no particular thing about that moment that made it any different from the thousands of other moments we'd shared – and that, in some odd way, was what made it every invitation and every perfect declaration as my lips slid over hers in the parking lot outside the lab. And Sara, beautiful, challenging Sara, kissing me back before I even realized what I was doing, flipping me around so my back pressed against the door of the Denali, furious in her affection. That was a near-decade of devotion and lust and frustration and bittersweet love. I knew it instantly and felt it as well, as I clutched at her back and drove her harder into me, a messy tangle of arms and legs and sparring tongues.

And then she stopped, hanging on my shoulders, panting heavily in my ear. No words came to me as the worry bubbled up in my chest, knotting my stomach with a rising wave of nausea. For what felt like an eternity she clung to me and I counted each heavy breath just to occupy my brain before it spiraled madly out of control.

She whispered, "Take me home."

I almost thought I hadn't really heard it, but then she raised her eyes to meet mine, dark black pupils blinking back at me, heavy lidded with arousal. I kissed her again and murmured every bit of thanks I could manage against her soft lips and pulled her again as close I could, wanting so much to press her warm flesh fully into mine and own her forever.

Sara reached around my back and opened the door behind me, pulling it open slightly and pushing me with it. We swung together an awkward step forward before she broke away and motioned for me to get in. Still dazed, I obeyed, didn't even think of circling around to open her door for her like a gentleman. She smiled shyly when she slid into the car next to me, though, and took my right hand softly in hers. With her thumb she rubbed tiny, slow circles on the back of my hand. As much as I wanted her hands elsewhere, desperately, I never wanted her to stop doing this.

"When you said 'Take me home'..." I began, without any intention of finishing. I chanced only the quickest glance at her. Losing physical contact with her, even for just a few seconds, cooled my head and plunged me, begrudgingly, back into cold, indifferent reality -- a reality in which "Take me home" probably meant just that.

She let a moment tick by before deciding I wasn't going to elaborate. "I meant it," she answered, a little sphynx-like.

She cocked her head to the side, looking out over the edge of the parking lot. I couldn't see her expression through her curtain of hair. Still her thumb traced those lazy circles.

When she finally looked at me, finally met my feverish gaze, she was smiling with a warmth I've rarely seen. And I couldn't help but smile back, her meaning now clear; my 'home' is anywhere she is, and I hope -- she's given me reason to hope -- that her 'home' may be anywhere I am.

I didn't want to invite myself into her sanctum, so I drove the few short miles to my own townhouse. Near the exit I worried, briefly, if it was too presumptuous, assuming that this was where she wanted to be, but her hand never left me, resting gently, reassuringly, on my knee as I drove.

I've spent six years trying not to overanalyze this woman while all the while remembering every detail of every glance, every inflection of every comment, every context of every accidental touch. Living on this level of minutiae is enough to make a man insane, but paradoxically it's the one thing that's sustained me. The hope, even the empty hope, that she was still within in my realm of possibility was sometimes the only thing that got me up after a long double shift and precious few hours of sleep to purge the sins, witnessed or committed, of yesterday.

And now she was sitting quietly beside me, still choosing to exist squarely in my realm of possibility, despite everything I've done to push her away. I couldn't help but marvel at that, at the fact that my hope wasn't so empty after all, that there was precious little chance that I was overanalyzing her now. She'd said nothing the entire car ride but it was a comfortable, personable silence. My heart was racing, I thought hers might be as well, but for once we had some idea of where we were going and I felt warm and safe knowing I'd be going there with her.

Finally.

I pulled into my garage and stole a glance at her. She seemed lost in thought, only shaken out of it by the slow cessation of movement. I jumped out of the car and ran around to open her door for her. She took my hand and stepped out and the grin was back for just a moment before she stepped forward and covered my lips with hers. In an instant, the irresistible heat of that first kiss was back, and again she was pushing me backward more forcefully than I would have thought her capable of. I followed her lead and stepped backward, managing enough control to steer her toward the door.

I opened the door behind me, half falling in before managing to brace myself on the door frame. She smiled into my mouth, I could feel it, and kicked off her shoes. The whole time she'd never left my lips, my skin, my body, wrapped around me sinuously as if she couldn't get enough of me all at once. I couldn't get enough of _her_ all at once and I let my hands roam where ever they found easy passage, skimming up under her shirt and lacing around her back.

"Bed--" she breathed, "Bedroom."

"Down the hall," I managed somehow before I pulled away from her enough to grasp her slender wrist and lead her there.

In the doorway her fingers worked the buttons of my shirt and pushed it softly over my shoulders. She motioned for me to lift my arms and pulled my undershirt over my head, tossing it aside. I know I hissed when her lips singed the sensitive skin of my neck before dancing down my chest to just above the waistband of my pants. She was so close -- so close -- that my cock twitched and I gasped again. She tugged on my waistband a little coyly and losing patience I pulled her up gently by her wrist and divest her of her own shirt and bra. I kissed the newly-exposed skin, ivory-white, and cupped one small, perfect breast with my hand while she slid out of her pants and panties in one swift, smooth movement.

Her heady scent, the smell of clean skin and warm arousal, made me feel young and restless and a little bit wild. My knees couldn't quite keep up, though, and I feltl myself wobble a little as I leaned over further to take in more of her inviting flesh.

She sensed it, pushed me toward the bed, quickly covering my body with her own as she slid up me and straddled my waist.

"Sara, honey --" I nearly moaned. It was an epithet and a plea and a benediction all in one.

With both hands behind her she popped the buttons on my pants and slid them down. Her eyes never left mine and she murmured my name softly in response before leaning forward, flat against my supine form. She rocked back, seeking heat -- _my _heat -- and I pressed upward greedily, eager to meet her.

And we did meet, just then, and she hissed at the sudden invasion, invited but unfamiliar. She took a moment to adjust and my eyes slid shut. This was a special sort of bliss, a rare find, this perfect fit. I surrendered control to her then and let her ride out her tension and desire and arousal. She was as warm and demanding as she was when she pushed me against the door of the Denali just this morning, though it seemed like a lifetime ago.

When I felt her tense around me and hiss my name in one long, airy syllable, I knew she was close and my eyes snapped open to watch her in wonder. A thin sheen of sweat had gathered on her forehead, across her cheek and her long eyelashes fluttered before she moaned and collapsed forward.

And this was all the invitation I needed as I rolled her gently under me. She hooked a leg over my back, invitingly, and it didn't take long. Just looking at her, under me, hair splayed wildly across the sheets and that tense tightness in her brow melted away... It was maddening and sensual and unlike anything I'd ever imagined in the dark, sinful shufflings she'd unwittingly participated in for years.

Sara threaded an arm behind my neck and pulled me down toward her. "Griss, please," she whispered, and I was lost that very instant.

Lost, knowing I wouldn't ever find my way back to the way we were before, knowing this new place was dark, foreboding, unfamiliar, but also knowing that Sara has enough light to guide the both of us through it.

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She curls with her back against my chest and I take the liberty of sliding a leg between hers and hugging her loosely across the shoulders. She sighs, resting her head on my arm, sheet pulled up and tucked under her chin.

"Sara?" I whisper tentatively.

She sighs again lightly, but doesn't respond. I feel her chest rise slowly and evenly. I know she's sleeping but I raise my hand to stroke the back of her head. I want to confess a thousands things, knowing I'm safe, knowing she won't remember tomorrow, but I reveal nothing to her dreaming form. Anything I have to say, to confess, she needs to hear. She deserves that. She deserves to remember the first time I lay my heart bare to her as she's done to me so many times. There will be so many chances to tell her tomorrow, the day after, the week after, and forever after that.

So "Thank you, honey," is all I breathe into her ear before burying my face in her soft, fragrant hair, content to finally forget about all my sins before this day.


End file.
